


Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle:  Resolution Day

by DarcyFarrow



Series: Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Lack of Communication, immigration and emigration, monarchy vs democracy, stolen election, warning: if you're happy with the current political climate in the US you won't like this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Another chapter in my WIP "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle." A century from now, Rumple, unable to care for himself, his family long gone, is in a fairy-run nursing home. Here, he recalls a time when he and Belle took opposite sides over Storybrooke's immigration policy.





	Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle:  Resolution Day

**Author's Note:**

> @a-monthly-rumbelling, November prompt: "They work opposite each other."

_"Only you can do something about it._  
_There's no one there, my friend, any better._  
_I might know what you mean when you say you fall apart._  
_Aren't we all the same? In and out of doubt."_

_—"Among Angels," Kate Bush_  
\---------------------------------------------  
A typical day, it starts out: as I walk into my office, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the house reacts to my presence by gradually raising the lights and the heat, to a setting that suits me. The glass panel installed into the wall across from my desk brightens and a soft male voice with an Irish accent wishes me a good morning. "Thursday, 21 October 2117—"

"Stop. I'm in the mood for a French accent today. Parisian, educated, male."

The house computer shifts as I've commanded. "21 October 2117, 7:48 a.m. Moon in the last quarter. Anna Gish's birthday. 97; her family will bring a cake. National Apple Day. National Conflict Resolution Day. All was well with the residents last night. You have two messages." A sharp voice accompanied by equally sharp facial features pops on the screen: "Cerise. You still haven't submitted your travel request. I need it by 4:00." Blue's image snaps off just as quickly as it popped on.

I grumble under my breath. Why does she insist on a "travel request" when I'm "traveling" only technically, by hologram, to a geriatrics workshop in December?

"Do you wish to send a reply?" my automated Frenchman inquires.

"Not yet."

"Second message," my Frenchman continues, and a friendlier face flicks onto the screen. This is Mayor K. T. McIntosh, a granddaughter of one of original inhabitants of Storybrooke. "Good morning, Cerise. I wonder if you've made your decision yet about the Emigration Committee. I know you've got your hands full, just getting your career off the ground and all, but we really would love to have you, especially because you're so recently back from the LWM. It gives you a perspective that the committee members don't have. If we could have your answer by Friday, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks."

"Do you wish to send a reply?"

"Not yet, but flag the message. I want to see it again first thing tomorrow." It's not like me to be indecisive—in fact, I have rash streak that's gotten me into hot water many times too many—but for two weeks I've been going back and forth on whether to accept this invitation. It's not, as Mayor McIntosh so diplomatically put it, giving me a graceful way out, a matter of time. I could hand over a few of my more routine duties to Andy and the other androids. Nor is it a matter of approval: Blue's already granted me that (reminding me that every Storybrooker has a responsibility to serve, yadda yadda yadda). And I do feel sufficiently obligated: I wouldn't be where I am now if the Emigration Committee hadn't permitted me to leave Storybrooke for college. I owe them, and I owe the generation just coming into adulthood now, to make certain their applications get fair consideration. As K. T. informed me, it's been years since any of the current committee members have ventured out of town for more than a short vacation. A few of them did go out to get their degrees, but that was ages ago, before they became business owners and taxpayers, parents and grandparents.

But. . . I'm only twenty-three.

"Ms. Cerise?" my Frenchman (I'm imagining him now as a tall, suave gent with salt-and-pepper hair. I'm thinking his name should be Pierre) gives me a gentle verbal nudge.

I've talked to some of the current committee members; I suspect their squeaky clean answers were politically white-washed. But something I've always adored about the elderly is their sometimes sandpapery frankness. "Resident bios. Find me someone who's served on the Emigration Committee."

In the time it takes me to swallow a sip of tea, Pierre is back, flashing slides for me: "Brian Bath, committee member from 2090-2099. Vic King, committee member from 2081-2085. Del Palmer, committee member from 2080-2090. Rumplestiltskin Gold, co-founder and committee—"

"Stop. Founder?"

"Co-founder of the Emigration Committee, 20 December 2019, along with Mayor Regina Mills, Snow White Nolan, Sheriff Emma Swan-Jones, Dr. Archie Hopper, Ruby Lucas, and Belle French-Gold. The Immigration Committee, comprised of the same members, was founded six months later."

"Bingo. Where is Mr. Gold at the moment, and what is he doing?"

"He is in his room, reading."

"Have Andy prepare a tray of tea and coffee, to bring to Mr. Gold's room." I dig into my desk drawer for something special I've been saving for Mr. Gold. My smile and my steps brighten as I swing out of my office and proceed down the hallway toward the residents' quarters. I couldn't ask for a better source for honest answers. And as a thank-you, I have a paperback copy of _A Brief History of Time_ that I'm sure he'll enjoy.

His head is bent over a paperback book, propped open between three fingers. It would be so much easier if he'd let the house computer display his reading material for him, as the other residents do, but when I suggested it, I got a chilly "I prefer the real thing, dearie" in reply. I learn quickly: he hasn't called me by that dreadful appellation again.

I lean in the open doorway for a moment, reluctant to break his concentration. Maybe it's sneaky of me, but I like to watch him read when he thinks he's alone; he allows his face to become animated as he reacts to the words. It's the only time, I think, that the real Mr. Gold emerges. I fold my arms in anticipation—but just as quickly I unfold them and rush forward, crouching beside his wheelchair. "Mr. Gold? Mr. Gold?" I extract the book from his fingers and toss it on his bed, then shake his arm. A hasty glance at the wheelchair's biometrics panel assures me his body is functioning as well as can be expected, but his unblinking stare and frozen features set me back on my heels. This isn't the first time I've caught him like this, his mind locked up, his senses inaccessible. I shake him again and call his name as Andy sweeps into the room. I know androids can't feel emotions, but Andy almost has me fooled as he sets the tray onto the coffee table and joins me at the wheelchair. Andy's mechanical smile vanishes as he kneels on Gold's other side. "Shall I summon—"

But before Andy can finish his question, Gold blinks, his mouth opens and closes and opens again, his tongue runs slowly across his dry lips and he lifts his head to gape at Andy. "Bae?"

"No, sir," Andy answers gently.

The wistfulness in Gold's tone stabs me deep. "Mr. Gold, it's me, Cerise. And that's Andy."

He's puzzled, shifting his eyes toward me. I won't press the issue: I've learned that at times like this, it will only frustrate him, possibly send him into a panic, if I try to bring him back to "reality." Right now, what's in his head is his reality, and it's quite different from what I'm seeing. I force a confident smile as I rise, drawing a wingback chair close to his wheelchair. Andy takes the cue from me and rises too, stepping back. I seat myself but lean forward, my hand on his knee to reassure him. If his mind was operating in the present time, I would have gotten a "dearie" snapped at me for taking such familiarity, but he looks so frail right now, his skin translucent, his eyes darting from my face to Andy's, I want to anchor him to me.

"Mr. Gold, good morning. I thought you might enjoy a visit this morning. Some of that Brazilian coffee? And we could continue our conversation from yesterday, about"—I retrieve the book I tossed onto his bed and lay it in his lap— _"Crime and Punishment_?"

He stares at the book as though he's never seen it before, then he gives me the same stare. "Who?"

I pretend to ignore his confusion. Sometimes when he's like this, if I just continue talking about mundane matters in a cheerful voice, he'll come back around. Even as they push up for a smile, though, my lips quaver, because these fade-outs of his have been coming more frequently and lasting longer. Our resident nurse admits to frustration—not over the fade-outs themselves (we see those periodically in other patients) but over the realization that someday we may lose him permanently—lose him in mind but not body, because he's immortal. And then what will we do? What will Storybrooke do, if he outlives all of us but remains in a vegetative state? Even with his fortune, which continues to grow, thanks to investments, it seems likely he'll someday be considered a drain on society.

If he were a poor man, I'm afraid that conclusion would have been drawn a long time ago.

I natter on about the weather, the book he's been reading, the book I've brought for him. I prepare his coffee and Andy holds the cup to his lips. He drinks some—I'm encouraged—but the light doesn't return to his eyes and the crack in my heart deepens. I make the visit short, so as not to tire him, and when I leave, Andy tucks him into bed. I set _Brief History_ and _Crime and Punishment_ on his dresser, squeezed in among framed photos and his hairbrush. He'll find them tomorrow and then we'll have our chat.

I hope.  
\---------------------------------------------  
It's my turn to be sneaked up on.

I'm rewatching K. T.'s message and sighing over the "pro's" and "con's" list I've written. Pierre—whose accent I've changed, so now I'm thinking of him as Pavel—reminds me about the travel request that was due yesterday and offers to fill it out for me, if I'll only dictate the details. Pavel stops talking, K. T.'s message ends, and now I hear a warm "Good morning, Ms. Cerise. May I interrupt?"

My head snaps up. "Oh!" I've been so focused on my list that I didn't hear anyone approach. "Yes, of course, come in, Mr. Gold. How are you doing this morning?"

"Better, thank you." He rolls into the office, pretending to be concentrating on the wheelchair, but his cheeks are tinged with embarrassment. "I, ah. . . Andy tells me you came to visit yesterday, while I was indisposed. I wish to, ah," he coughs, "apologize."

"Not your fault," I assure him.

"Nevertheless."

"I just wish there was something we could do. . . ." But since it's magic, and dark magic at that, that binds his body and locks up his mind, nothing modern medicine can do will provide relief.

"Well." He doesn't want to dwell on the topic. He glances at my wall, where K. T.'s face lingers in freeze frame. "So, Madame Mayor has extended you an invitation." Gold knows K. T. by sight, unlike most of our residents; she's been in a few times to talk to him, sometimes seeking information about magic or historical events, sometimes seeking his advice as the oldest living resident of Storybrooke (or anywhere).

"Yeah, in fact, I was hoping to talk to you about that. The Emigration Committee. I understand you were one of the founders."

He lowers his head with a smile—either modest or fond, I'm not sure which. "Yes. Actually, it was Snow White's idea, after a disastrous attempt to solve an earth-shaking problem through democratic means."

I fold my hands over my stomach and lean back in my chair, ready for a juicy story. "How did that come about?"

His sight moves inward as he summons the memory. "Well, as you know, from your school books"—he rolls his eyes—"the First Curse was broken in 2012 by Emma Swan. Which, if you think about it, would have brought about a whole slew of new problems as townsfolk adjusted to the myriad changes. I say 'would have' because in actuality, we spent most of the next six years fighting old enemies that came crawling out of the woodwork. There was very little time and energy left for readjustments, such as sorting out the families that the First Curse had torn asunder, coping with what amounted to magical multiple personality disorder, developing a form of government suited to a population that had grown up in an agrarian monarchy but had spent the last thirty years in a technology-based republic. That was just the tip of the iceberg. But between Lost Boys and Black Fairies and car-throwing giants and walking snowmen and jealous witches and revenge-seeking pirates and heart-stealing sorceresses—well, you know the parade of villains that marched through here. Including, I am ashamed to say, me. It was impossible to get ourselves sorted out. Eventually, though, we had no choice. We had intruders from the outside breaking through our protective bubble; we needed laws and procedures to deal with them. And as soon as the First Curse broke, we started aging. Our children started growing up. Storybrooke High School's first graduating class held its Commencement on June 1, 2016."

"And those kids needed to move on."

He nods. "And more importantly, _wanted_ to. Many of them wanted to see the world, pursue careers, get away from all the—as Bae termed it—all the magic crap. Who can blame them? The parade of magic-throwing villains made living here an endless cycle of curses. At first, the town approached those two problems with magic, erecting barrier after barrier to keep intruders out and keep our kids in. But for every town-line curse, a curse-breaker was found. We tried casting amnesiac spells on the outsiders who came through, and in a knee-jerk monarchic reaction to the problem of would-be emigrants, Queens Snow and Regina ruled that no Storybrooker would be permitted to leave for the Land without Magic. They were welcome to go back to Misthaven, or any other magic-bearing realm, but not into the Barren Lands."

"Hence, Storybrooke II." An exodus of three hundred ex-peasants and small-time merchants, who gathered their families and their things and moved back to Misthaven.

"And hence we made outlaws of our children. Those who attempted to leave for the Barren Lands were arrested. Those who made it out were arrested when they tried to return to Storybrooke. Snow and Regina and Emma hated to do that, but they had no choice but to uphold the law they had created. Protests arose. Petitions, calls for a recall election—the town was so confused then, a co-monarchy pretending to run as a democracy. Fights split families and friends."

"The Stolen Election of 2018," I recall reading about it, "and the summer of riots that followed. The town was shut down for days. Three houses set on fire. Car accidents that maybe weren't entirely accidental."

"And a man elected who never should have been. Voters bought off or threatened, misinformation spread, truth distorted. Yes, as her opposition claimed, Regina had done terrible things, but she had reformed and had risked her life time and again for the community. Yes, Snow had committed adultery, but was a curse-created marriage really valid? George claimed that he, and only he, could restore decency, law and order, and that former royals had no place in the leadership of a republic, and Regina and Emma were driven out of office, and Nolan thrown off the City Council. Those who had supported Regina and Snow were dubbed 'monarchists' and were snubbed on the streets by 'commonwealthers.' Their businesses went under; they were thrown out of jobs and neighborhoods. Some of them, including the dwarfs who used to serve as Snow's royal guard, left for Misthaven. The town was crumbling from within."

"What turned things around?"

"It was a slow process. Little by little, investigations by the press uncovered in George's administration tax fraud, nepotism, embezzlement of public funds, unlawful seizure of private property, even collusion with a foreign government to manipulate the election."

"The Cracked Teapot Scandal," I remember. Some enterprising teenage waitresses had bugged a teapot to record a conversation between Candidate George Spencer, his campaign manager, and two Dark Realm emissaries.

"But people turned a deaf ear to all of this, until the day Henry Mills was attacked. He was walking home from a friend's house one evening, when he was seized by six so-called commonwealthers, dragged into the alley behind the Rabbit Hole and beaten into unconsciousness. Two cracked ribs, a broken ankle, and a concussion—but the worst of it, in the public's view, was that the word 'monarchist' had been branded into his forehead."

I shudder. "My god."

"However people felt about his mothers, the public saw Henry as an innocent, just a school kid that everyone liked. The commonwealthers and the monarchists united in demanding an arrest, but though there were suspects, no investigation ever happened. George made some mealy-mouthed statement about what a shame it was that a nice kid got caught up in politics, but it was when he went on to claim that the attack had been carried out by monarchists seeking to undermine the commonwealth movement, that's when the tide turned. George was last seen escaping through a portal with the two Dark Realm emissaries. Snow was elected mayor. Regina was too upset to run for office."

"What a dramatic history we have, for such a small town."

"To return to your question, after Snow was elected, things settled down and eventually she brought us back to the emigration problem. We needed a better solution, one that was fair to all, and considerate of our children's needs, yet would keep us safe. So after a town hall brainstorming session, she came up with the idea of an application process for prospective emigrants. A committee would review the applications and decide whether to grant emigration, based upon such factors as the applicant's emotional stability, criminal background, job skills set, short-range and long-range plans, and preparedness for life on the outside. The committee would meet four times a year to review the applications. A two-thirds majority would be needed for the request to be granted. The number of permits would be limited, so that the emigrants would have a better chance of blending in to the LWM. Of course, there would continue to be those who would sneak out, but at least this way, there would be some controls in place. The first application to be approved—"

"Oh! I know this one: Ava Zimmer, to study in Boston to become an optometrist and return here to practice." Part of the preparation for my own emigration application was to study successful applications.

"Correct. And six months later, we discovered we needed an immigration application, because emigrant #2 wanted to come home with a bride."

"I know that one, too. Dr. Whale, who'd gone out for a refresher course in cardiology. His wife's application was granted, but the marriage didn't last long. She was given the choice of staying in Storybrooke or taking a memory potion so she could go back to New Jersey."

"Thus setting the precedent that's followed today."

"Where did you come into the picture?"

"In 2019, when Snow proposed the committee system, she put it up for election. Again, the town was politically divided, this time between the 'Our Children's Future' camp, headed by people like Whale, Jefferson Hatter, Archie Hopper, Ruby Lucas and the Nolans; and the 'Main Street Tour Bus' camp, headed by Regina, Blue, Eugenia Lucas, and the Herman family. The former group believed that citizens have both the right and the need to travel freely between worlds. The latter group believed that if emigration was allowed, we'd soon be under seige from magic-hungry outsiders and curiosity seekers. That is, one emigrant shooting off his mouth about there being magic back in Storybrooke would quickly result in tour buses driving up and down Main Street."

"I see. And which camp did you support?"

"Until Snow's proposal, I'd pretty much followed the 'I Don't Give a Damn' camp. I was well over three hundred years old then, you see; I'd seen regimes come and go with very little actual change for the lower class, which, even as a sorcerer, I still thought of myself as. Especially as a sorcerer, I considered myself part of no community. My loyalties were to my family only. But then two things happened: Belle became an activist for the Children's Future camp, causing me to fear for our already vulnerable marriage. For you see, Cerise, there's a difference between love and marriage, and while we never doubted how we felt about each other, we sometimes doubted whether our partnership could continue. So with the debate quite literally brought home to my doorstep, I formed an opinion despite my preference for neutrality."

"What was the second thing that made you take a stand?"

"We discovered that Gideon's magic was inherent. We had hoped that the powers he'd exhibited while under the Black Fairy's control were a result of nurture, not nature. When he was delivered to us again as a newborn, we hoped he might be free of magic's taint. But at the age of two, he performed telekinesis on his choo-choo train."

In my mind's eye I see Mr. Gold's deepest fears take form: another child dying because of magic. He'd lost Bae to Zelena that way; he'd temporarily lost Gid to the Black Fairy that way. There are so many users and abusers in every realm. All it would take would be a careless word spoken in the wrong ear and Gid would have been in grave danger. Suddenly I understand the Tour Bus Campaign. "You had to protect him. And all your children to come, and the children and nieces and nephews of all the magic users in town."

"Belle understood. She shared my fears. But she also feared that a continuation of Storybrooke's isolationist policy would cause our children to stagnate, grow resentful, even hateful, never achieve their potential, never change the world as they were meant to. 'No one chooses my fate but me,' she liked to say. 'Shouldn't Gideon have the same right?' And looking back now. . . ." He sighs. "I see how right she was. If my side had won the election—"

I'm horrified of that outcome as I realize all the achievements made by Golds over the past century. "So much that we have today, that never would have been."

"The discoveries might still have been made, but perhaps not as soon, perhaps not as effectively." His chest puffs. "How many more lives would have been lost, if Gideon and Joy had not gone out into the world? And their children, and their grandchildren, down to that Gold living on Mars today, none of those people would have been born, none of their discoveries made. And the people each of them touched, inspired, taught, directed, funded—"

"All gone." I sit back, aghast. "Every one of them mattered. Every one of them was a necessary link in the chain that led to the world we have today."

"Depriving even one child of his potential is a very serious thing. I of all people should know. My mother, in her fear for my safety, robbed me of my fate. But sometimes for a man who's lived so long and seen so much, I can be very short-sighted. We argued, Belle and I, with each other and with our opponents, for weeks leading up to the election. We put our voices out there, as we never had before, because our son's future was at stake. We sometimes went to bed in separate rooms."

Beneath his words, I fill in the details with what I know of him. All of his life, he'd been alone. No parents to protect him, no friends to confide in, no allies to support him.

"She said to me so many times, 'You don't need power, Rumple, you need courage to let me in.' But it was more than courage; I didn't know _how_." Well, how could he know how to ask for help, how to recognize help when it was offered and trust it. Every instinct in him would have screamed to save Gid, as he couldn't do for Bae. He had to fight against everything in his nature, else he would have taken matters into his own hands.

"One night I found myself in the basement while Belle was upstairs, giving Gid a bath. I had my books out, my potions. One more curse, I thought, cast one more curse on the town line, something that won't break down with time, that can't be destroyed by fairies or witches or magic scrolls. Belle will never know I did it. Or if she does find out, she'll realize I'm right and thank me for it. One more curse, for my son. I glanced up at a calendar for the optimum date to cast my new curse; under a full moon always makes the magic stronger. This was a novelty calendar that the pharmacy gave away, a mishmash of local photos, inspirational quotations and odd holiday citations, and I saw that the day's date was October 21, 'Conflict Resolution Day.'"

"Pavel likes to give me those odd factoids too," I blurt, then I blush, wave the sentence away. "Oh, you don't know who Pavel is. Never mind. What happened next?"

"Conflict Resolution Day. The gods were kicking me in the shins. And I should be kicking myself, because hadn't I learned by now that curses don't keep families together? I closed my books and dragged myself up the stairs to do the truly hard work."

"Talk it out with Belle."

"Yes. I admitted to her what I'd been thinking. I made her cry. She'd hoped for better from me. But when she stopped crying her expression changed. 'You found the courage,' she said, so surprised. I stumbled over my words; it's so easy to get tangled up in them when you've spent a lifetime twisting them. 'I want to let you in,' I said. 'I want to tell you what's in my mind instead of pretending that nothing's wrong. I want to tell you what's in my heart, even if it disgusts you and you run away because I'm not a hero, as you are.' So we put Gid to bed and we sat on the couch, holding each other, because, she said, she needed to show me that she wouldn't turn away from me."

"And you talked."

His lips twitch. "One wretched word at a time. I think, as a communication, that conversation was a failure, more confusing than clarifying. But one word at a time, I yanked the truth out of me, and one word at a time, she listened without judgment. She _felt_ what I was saying, more than she understood it. And then I shut up and listened, and I found that she feared for the future too."

"When two people share a goal, a deal can always be struck."

"We talked until our strength ran out. And in the morning, we talked again. We covered the same ground, but this time, the words came more easily, because she knew I wouldn't try to deceive her and I knew she wouldn't push me away. And the next day, we talked, and the next."

"And how did it resolve?"

"Neither one of us changed our mind. Not about the emigration issue. But something did change; I stopped worrying that any fight could be our last. She learned not to jump to conclusions. We both learned the power of the word _why_." He gnawed on his lower lip in a gesture he'd borrowed from someone else. Then, making up his mind, he relaxed into his wheelchair. "Did I ever tell you I can read upside down?"

A bubble of laughter bursts from my chest.

"I've been reading your list." He nods toward my desktop. "That's a lengthy list, but not entirely honest."

"I suppose not," I admit. "The reason I'm struggling with this decision is, well, fear. Fear that I'm too young, too inexperienced to make the right decisions." My eyes burn with angry tears. "I haven't even been out of college a year. These decisions will change people's lives, maybe even for generations to come, like Gideon and Joy. How can anyone expect me to handle such a responsibility?"

His jaw tightens and releases as he glances down at my hand, still gripping a pen. I have the distinct feeling he'd place his hand over mine, if he could; I accept his glance as a substitute. "You need only remember that you will not decide alone; six others will have your back. And you start with an advantage it took me centuries to find: you already know the power of _why_."

My breath is gone. Joy and Gid may have received all the accolades, but their father, it seems to me, is every bit the discoverer they were. He just explores something less visible.


End file.
